


Thirteen Pence

by TeaCub90



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Fluff, Gen, Gift Giving, Human Disaster Endeavour Morse, Post-Season/Series 06
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:28:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27831535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaCub90/pseuds/TeaCub90
Summary: ‘Well, I…wanted you to have something,’ Morse scratches the back of his neck, an odd, nervous habit. ‘Something nice,’ he adds, rather shyly; honestly, Max can’t help but wonder if this is what dear Nurse Hicks upstairs endured whenever Morse took her out for a drink.
Relationships: Max DeBryn & Endeavour Morse
Comments: 17
Kudos: 25





	Thirteen Pence

**Author's Note:**

> Happy December! In my determination to get back into fic after a long hiatus due to a mental health spiral, I'm trying to write something for every day of the month to celebrate Christmas. Will balancing it with my return to work post-lockdown prove effective? Probably not. Is it a good idea for mentally-fragile fanfic authors to stay awake until three in the morning polishing and publishing the fic? DEFINITELY not. Does that mean this is unbeta'ed and all mistakes are mine? Yes. Yes it does. 
> 
> Also: I appreciate all the support and kind words on my fic; I've fallen by the wayside in responding to everyone but rest assured I will. Your support means the world, thankyou. 
> 
> This fic is set post-Deguello, pre-Oracle.

* * *

The bowtie is a rich purple colour, the same shade as an untouched Cadbury chocolate wrapper glinting temptingly from a shop shelf and putting Max in mind of rich truffles. He fingers the bowtie reverently, clasping the lid of the gift-box – a soft gold shade, with the logo of a well-known shop brand in Oxford stamped on the front – and swallows at the tender softness of the satin; what will surely be a brush of pure gentleness at his neck and collar, he thinks, already mentally planning possible outfits for the upcoming holiday season.

‘Oh, Morse…’ He looks up at the sergeant, dumbfounded and, for one of a few very select times in his life, struck utterly speechless.

‘I’ve got the receipt,’ Morse throws out a hand like a parley, standing almost to attention in his coat and a plain blue scarf – the winter has crept up on them in a shock of cold after a hot, corrupted, drag of a summer and while Max is quite used to the temperatures down here in the mortuary in his role as a pathologist, Morse assuredly is not. ‘If you don’t like it, I can take it back.’

‘My dear fellow, it’s utterly splendid.’ Max can’t help another touch, can’t keep his hands to himself, utterly captivated. ‘Although it must have been rather expensive.’

‘Just…saw it and thought it would suit you.’ Morse is – quite deliberately, it seems – not looking at him, instead playing with pens in a convenient pot on the side. Max raises an eyebrow; he highly doubts Morse is the kind of man – given his steadfast refusal to buy a new coat for several years and Strange’s side-mutterings about his accommodation, dim and on the cheap – to just casually hang around the kind of shops, let alone the sections, where he would find one of his beloved bowties.

‘Well,’ Max takes one hand away to briskly swipe a biro out of Morse’s hands; the sergeant shoves his palms into his pockets, ducking his gaze towards the ground. ‘It was exceedingly generous of you, old fellow. Thankyou, Morse.’

Morse smiles a little, shuffles his feet. ‘You’re welcome,’ he tells the floor.

‘Bit early for Christmas shopping, I would have thought,’ Max adds, aiming for candid and probably missing by a mile, as the crow flies; this is, after all, the third time that Morse has visited him in the mortuary – a place he usually takes pains to avoid – in the space of the five days that Max has been back at work, ostensibly to deliver a non-urgent file or to randomly ask Max’s medical expertise on a case that doesn’t require it. He rather puts Max in mind of an anxious child – albeit one in a suit and tie, freshly shaven – constantly checking in with a parent or teacher to ensure that they’re not in any sort of trouble.

That, and the fact that beyond a formal, festive card and polite enquiries, Morse has never brought him a Christmas present before; doesn’t tend to do it generally, from what Max can gather, the Thursdays being a possible exception to the rule for all he knows. The sergeant did gift him with a bottle in the aftermath of the tiger case a few years ago, as a thanks for services rendered during the last two days of his leave, but never something like this. And never something so specific, either – and yet given Morse’s incredible skills of observation, perhaps _not._

Max considers Morse’s eyes looking downwards and imagines him, mere weeks ago that feel both like days and years together, plucking his glasses off the bloodied tiles with the utmost care, handing them back to him in the fresh, harsh light of a cold October day. While Oxford was putting out pumpkins on All Hallows Eve, Max was curled up on his sofa, holding cold towels to a throbbing head.

He clears his throat, draws his mind away from unpleasant thoughts by rubbing the bowtie again; a sage piece of advice for keeping memories of that night at bay – passed down from numerous colleagues at the hospital, and also, rather randomly, by his niece’s rather singular husband – has been to anchor himself to something close to hand, to bring himself back to what’s truly there. This gift – soft and curved material, thrust out towards him in its box with a mixture of trepidation and odd hopefulness, as though half-expecting it to be knocked out of his hand – seems to do the trick, grounding him back in the present.

‘Well, I…wanted you to have something,’ Morse scratches the back of his neck, an odd, nervous habit. ‘Something nice,’ he adds, rather shyly; honestly, Max can’t help but wonder if this is what dear Nurse Hicks upstairs endured whenever Morse took her out for a drink.

‘It’s wonderful, Morse. I look forward to wearing it with pride,’ he says seriously and something in Morse seems to relax, as though reassured. ‘Although truly Morse, you didn’t have to. Being a homeowner does tend to take up a lot of your salary.’ _A soldier will you be for thirteen pence a day,_ he considers privately, thinking about where Morse’s own soldiering has taken him; not just this year alone but for all the time he’s been here, the cases he’s worked and lives he’s saved – Max’s included, now.

Morse nods. ‘I know. I know. But I – I _wanted_ to,’ he repeats; swallows audibly, as though all the things he wants to say are gathered up into some unintelligible ball in his throat. Max doesn’t miss the far-from-subtle manner in which those blue eyes slip over his face, like a lighthouse seeking out the rocks in a seemingly-harmless sea before he folds his arms, looking a little more determined than before.

‘Anyway, I’m…thinking of going away, for a bit, actually, so I wanted you to have it now.’ There’s a significant pause as he stands there, parsing on precisely what to say.

‘You deserve…’ his eyes meet Max’s finally; his voice wavers, _‘something.’_

 _Compensation for your unpleasantness_ , a lesser man might have said and indeed _has_ said; in the space of a few weeks Max has been contacted by a series of employees, both from the chief constable’s corners and also from the Home Office, all nervously beating about the bush with talk of legalities and financial regain, as though a bit of money could somehow make up for the single most unpleasant experience of his life, with such empty offers coming after Morse – accompanied by Strange, Detective-Inspector Thursday and Chief-Superintendent Bright – had already done what mattered the most.

With that comparison in mind, Max can only regard the sergeant warmly. ‘As you yourself do, old fellow,’ he offers in response; Morse hums at that, non-committal and Max lays a hand on his shoulder, in the pretence of reaching past him for a highly-convenient clipboard. He’s very aware of a particular kind of silence in the room as he does so; aware of Morse’s study of him, much like a man studies a toy to check it’s still working. Max raises his eyebrows back at him, quietly challenging.

‘I should let you get on,’ Morse pushes himself both from his thoughts and away from the counter. ‘If I don’t see you again, Happy Christmas, Max. _Doctor,_ ’ he corrects himself needlessly, as though fearing being rude; Max adjusts his glasses.

 _‘Max_ will do nicely,’ he offers kindly, feeling quite gratified; Morse blinks, as though the concept of being allowed to openly respond to someone by their first name had never occurred to him before and he pauses at the door.

‘Maybe – if you have time – we could go for a drink, before I go off on leave,’ he offers, gesturing needlessly to the corridor and beyond, hands in his pockets. ‘Only if… I know Christmas can be busy,’ he adds hastily, as though he’d never dare to consider that Max might be free otherwise.

‘Certainly,’ Max finds himself agreeing, surprised at the offer as much as anything: that Morse apparently has even more time for him beyond these particular visitations, time that could be spent elsewhere, enjoying a fresh start at a new desk, clear of the corruption that polluted the station – catching up with Thursday for one, putting the world to rights. He bats the doubts away; it’s been an odd year and for Morse to call him by his first name is an achieved rarity in itself. ‘That sounds most agreeable, Morse, thankyou. Call me.’

Morse blinks, seeming pleasantly surprised, as though he was fully expecting Max not to take up the gauntlet. ‘I will. Erm…’ He gestures vaguely again, but this time he’s wearing a smile; the first true one he’s worn for a long time; at least since that hot July day at the cottage when they shared seedcake amongst the tea-roses and the birdsong. ‘See you later then, Max.’

‘Thankyou for the bowtie, Morse,’ Max twinkles back. ‘Stay warm, old fellow. It’s bitter out there.’ Morse hesitates on the threshold, openly considering such a caution before he nods once in concession, turning on his heel and strolling speedily away down the corridor.

‘So now shall I not die in debt,’ Max wonders aloud, running a finger over the satin of the tie again; before shaking himself away from thoughts of the past, with the reassurance that he’ll see Morse again at some point, out in the fresh, crisp, cold air of Oxford’s streets with their shops and lights and freshly-decorated pine trees. Placing the lid back on the box with soft reverence, he heads across to carefully place it in his office before returning to work.

*

**Author's Note:**

> Max quotes from A.E. Housman's 'Grenadier'; a rather dark and sombre poem, I know, but it somehow seemed fitting.


End file.
